


I Am Indifferent, Yet (I Am a Total Wreck)

by MrSandman



Category: Torchwood
Genre: (no spoilers beyond what the blurb says), (sort of), (to maybe something more...), Audio 011: Broken (Torchwood), Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Hatred, Love/Hate, M/M, Past Character Death, Pining, Post-Episode: s01e04 Cyberwoman, Pre-Slash, Touching, mention of the setting of countrycide (not specific or graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSandman/pseuds/MrSandman
Summary: A dagger of pain. A gaping emptiness. A blaze of contempt.Not even two weeks into his suspension, and Ianto is thinking about him again.
Relationships: Jack Harkness & Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	I Am Indifferent, Yet (I Am a Total Wreck)

**Author's Note:**

> Well! This sort of sprang forth out of nowhere, really. I played very fast and loose with the TV canon, and with the timeline of Broken, so please excuse that and allow me my self-indulgent artistic liberty! Also, this really didn’t go in the direction I was expecting it to when I started, to be honest. Make of it what you will!
> 
> Very kindly beta-ed by princessoftheworlds - thank you so much, Nik! 
> 
> Title from The Music or the Misery by Fall Out Boy.

_A dagger of pain. A gaping emptiness. A blaze of contempt._

Not even two weeks into his suspension, and Ianto is thinking about him again. 

For nearly a fortnight now, ever since that accidental trip to his local and his chat with Mandy - and outside of the gaping wound that has been left by the loss of Lisa - Ianto has thought about nothing.

Well, not quite nothing. Ianto has carefully and studiously thought about nothing more consequential than the telephone number for the local takeaway, or the fact that he’s almost out of milk, or whether to put the television on in the background while he stares unfocussedly at the wall to its left. 

But now, Jack is running amok in his brain. Though Ianto can say with absolute certainty that he utterly abhors Captain Jack Harkness, he cannot think about anyone or anything else. 

He hates it. 

He paces the length of his flat, recalling the ugly look on Jack’s face as he’d ordered Ianto to do the unthinkable. He feels the ghostly press of the barrel of Jack’s Webley against his forehead, hears the faint drip, drip, drip of the water tower. He remembers waking to the firm press of lips against his own. 

He despises the fact that these images play on repeat in his head, night and day, that Jack now features in so many of his thoughts, waking or sleeping. 

Eventually, he can’t stand being in his own mind any more and slams out of the door in the direction of the pub. 

_A frisson of hatred. A seething inferno. A wall of frost._

After his suspension, Ianto returns to work, and the flames of contempt are fanned from the minute he steps through the door until the moment he steps back out again. 

Ianto loathes the constant prickling sensation on the back of his neck, the almost preternatural knowledge that Jack’s eyes are on him. He wishes that he could just disappear, melt into the background of the Hub until he’s invisible to all of its regular inhabitants. 

He can’t bear to meet any of their gazes - Tosh with her sympathy, and Gwen with her big doe eyes, and Owen’s hard, flat glare - but Jack’s is the worst. Ianto sees the smouldering brimstone in Jack’s eyes, and in return, allows the windows to his own soul to reflect acres of icy glaciers. 

Whatever fragile, precious thing had been blossoming between them seems to have been broken beyond repair, shattered like the fragile glass ornaments his mother used to keep on a shelf in the lounge, after he and Rhi had got into a tussle and slammed into the wall, sending the ornaments crashing to the ground. 

Now? Now, there is only hatred, and long may it last. 

_A hesitant intrigue. A mesmeric pull. An inevitable supernova._

And yet, the longer Ianto is back in the Hub, the more he finds himself gravitating towards Jack. They all do it, of course; Jack’s strangely magnetic personality draws everyone in. But Ianto is still so angry, still feels so betrayed. And yet he, too, is like the moth to the proverbial flame. 

He’s disgusted by it. Hates that he can’t help lounging against door frames and staircases, in the knowledge that it will place him within Jack’s orbit, that it will bring him closer to Jack. Detests the fact that he loiters whenever he delivers Jack his coffee, even though Jack never looks up from his paperwork or his conference calls, muttering his thanks into his mug. 

He never touches Ianto, not even when Ianto passes him the coffee or a sheaf of papers. Jack keeps his distance, and honestly, maybe Ianto hates him a little for that, too. 

_A prickle of electricity. A buzz of static. A bolt of sensation._

That hand on Ianto’s shoulder, that tentative first contact that Jack makes after destroying everything Ianto had held dear - and indeed, after Ianto had nearly done the same to Jack - seals the deal. Ianto tries and fails to hide the hitch in his breath and starts, the movement rippling out from his shoulder where the warmth of Jack’s hand is burning through the material of his shirt and waistcoat.

Ianto briefly locks eyes with Jack, and after a beat, Jack jerkily pats Ianto’s shoulder and retracts his hand. He doesn’t quite leave Ianto’s personal space, though. Ianto tries to resent him for that closeness but barely manages to scrape together a semblance of mild irritation. He hasn’t truly hated Jack for a while, now.

He wishes that Jack would touch him again. He hates himself for wishing for it.

_A tentative pressure. A whisper of suggestion. A reluctant rush of warmth spreading out from the chest._

Jack begins to touch Ianto again, tentatively at first. A little touch at his elbow here, a swift pat on the back there. The brimstone in Jack’s gaze is no longer boiling, merely simmering. And there’s something else there, something that Ianto can’t quite understand. Or perhaps, something that Ianto isn’t sure that he has correctly understood.

Maybe the ice in his own eyes is melting, too, because Jack touches him more and more. An arm slung around his shoulders, a hand lingering on his forearm or his knuckles. Once, a quick brush of fingers against the back of his neck. That had been after the Brecon Beacons, as Ianto sat on the tailgate of the SUV and stared into space, his own hand occasionally ghosting over his throat. 

Ianto… does not relish how it makes him feel. More than that, he can’t stand how much he itches to touch Jack in return. 

_A wave of elation. A crumbling of resolve. A crackle of heat._

Or maybe he can stand it. Maybe it’s time to give up on reinforcing the wall he’s been building around these feelings in his mind, to admit to himself that any hatred he held for Jack, or Jack’s touch, has long since dwindled to nothing. 

He’s given it a fair go, hasn’t he? But Jack wins out against everybody eventually; Ianto has known that since the very beginning. And who is he kidding, if not himself?

Ianto craves his touch. 

_A swooping sensation. A speeding freight-train of fervour. A crash of thunderous heartbeats._

Ianto craves Jack’s touch, and yet, he reassures himself, and yet. He hates how he feels when he’s close to Jack. He hates feeling like his nerve endings, his blood, his very bones are calling out to Jack-

No. He doesn’t hate it. Not really. Not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to drop by and say hi on twitter (@hetheyharkness) or tumblr (kingisdead), should you so desire it! Comments, kudos etc. are very much appreciated! Have a great day :D


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